


Every Color Under the Sun

by alexandermylove



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, I dont know how to tag, M/M, Mania, ian feels empty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3612159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandermylove/pseuds/alexandermylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pills made everything brown. It was the product of mixing every color together and expecting to get something beautiful, but instead getting something ugly and bland and shitty that was exactly how Ian felt: Like shit. (Takes place during 5x10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Color Under the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been wanting to write a gallavich fic for the longest fucking time but I never knew what to write about...until now: After watching 5x10 I really wanted to write about how Ian feels (or doesn't) once he starts taking his meds and also about the new dugout scene.
> 
> I hope y'all like it:

When Ian went through his manic phases- he had felt on top of the world.

He was invincible and untouchable. Colors were brighter, sounds were louder, and his body practically buzzed from having to contain all of his extra energy. Being manic was white- bright and blinding and lighting up everything it touched.

But if being manic was white- the crash was black. Dark and all consuming until it was all that he could see, all that he could feel. There was no reason to eat, no reason to speak, no reason to move. Most days were spent longing for an end, wanting the ground to open up and swallow him whole or the goddamn earth to crash into the sun so that everything could finally be over.

The pills were supposed to bring things back into a gray zone- he should be able to get happy without being too happy, get sad without getting too sad. The pills were supposed to make him normal like everyone else- like how he used to be.

But that had not happened.

The pills made everything brown.

It was the product of mixing every color together and expecting to get something beautiful, but instead getting something ugly and bland and shitty looking.

That was exactly how Ian felt:

Like shit.

And out of place like he was trying to fit the square piece that was him into the circle hole that was the world around him.

The pills were supposed to help but they just made him feel empty. It was like he was looking through a screen- with him on one side and everyone else on the other.

His skin didn't feel like it was his.

He would look in the mirror and it was like he was looking at someone else.

He could walk, and talk, and work but he didn't feel as if he was truly there.

And the times where he did feel emotions, he felt hopeless, and angry, and frustrated.

Why did Monica have to pass on this disease to him?

Why couldn't he just be normal?

Why wasn't there some zipper at the back of his neck or some switch to slip or some string to pull on and unravel that would suddenly make him okay?

And if that wasn't enough- no one treated him the same anymore.

Fiona and Debbie tiptoed around him as if they were afraid he was going to snap and smother them in their sleep.

He barely saw Lip anymore, mostly due to him being at college, but when they did see each other, things were strained in a way they never had been.

And before Carl had gotten shipped off to juvie, the only thing they had been able to talk about was the fact that Ian was 'crazy'.

But his family acting differently wasn't what hurt the most.

What hurt the most was Mickey.

Before Ian got diagnosed, Mickey was never afraid to speak exactly what was on his mind and give Ian a good smack over the head if the younger said something stupid, curse Ian out if he got angry, and fuck him with everything that he had until they were both sweaty, panting, and so tired that they could barely move.

But now- now Mickey treated him as if he even looked at him in the wrong way, Ian would break into a million pieces.

Mickey would buy him vitamins, make sure he took his meds on time, and was constantly reminding him of what he should or shouldn't be eating or drinking.

The older man was kind, and he was gentle, and it was nice -Ian knew it was. He knew that there were people- Fiona included- who wished to find a good man that actually gave a shit about them and took care of them. Ian knew he was probably being irrational but nothing made sense in his jumbled up brain anymore.

The more Mickey acted kind towards him- the more Ian wanted to scream, and lash out, and break things because yes, it was nice, but it wasn't  _Mickey._

It wasn't the one he had fallen in love with at least.

Ian was already so empty-and he wanted to feel, he  _needed_ to feel- but the one person that had always brought out the best and the worst parts of him, from love to hatred and everything in between, made him feel the emptiest of all.

* * *

By the time they made it to the dugout, Ian was already halfway there. Since he had burned his hand at work, he was left with a constant, throbbing reminder that he was alive, he was there, he was real.

It was the closest he had felt to being normal in a while and he wouldn't let Mickey ruin that for him.

Ian didn't want a fucking nurse, goddammit- he wanted his boyfriend back.

So he took all of his built up frustrations and directed all of them toward punching Mickey in the face.

He was angry but anger was good- anger was something to hold on to and keep him grounded. He screamed- terrible words- but it felt so good to finally be able to talk.

And then Mickey was punching him and they were rolling around in the grass. Ian could feel his face, feel his arms, feel his stomach, feel his legs. He was no longer just looking out through someone else's eyes, he was himself again. And it felt fucking amazing.

After coughing a bit and standing up on shaking legs, he walked over to where they had dropped the backpack.

Mickey was smiling. It wasn't fake, it wasn't strained, but bright and beautiful and something Ian would never get tired of seeing.

"That was the first time I've felt since-" He trailed off because he couldn't remember the last moment he had been this fully aware of the air moving in and out of his lungs and his heart  _beatbeatbeating_  in his chest.

But Mickey was moving in closer and his cheeks were pink, and his eyes were blue, and the blood on his face was red, and he was bringing their lips together.

And Ian wasn't in the dangerous black or white zones, he wasn't dull and empty brown, and he wasn't even gray. He felt like he was filled to the brim with every last goddamn color in the universe- each distinct and separate, dark and light, bright and monochrome, pleasure and pain.

When their clothes came off and he was thrusting deep inside of Mickey, burying his head in the shorter man's shoulder, and running his fingers down his boyfriends stomach- he was full, he was complete, he held every color under the sun and he never wanted the moment to end.

 


End file.
